


An Emotional Week

by Sarie_Fairy



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Emotions, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e02 Deep Throat, Episode: s01e08 Ice, Episode: s01e12 Fire, Episode: s02e06 Ascension, Episode: s02e07 3, Episode: s02e08 One Breath, Episode: s04e13 Never Again, Episode: s07e17 All Things, Episode: s07e22 Requiem (X-Files), Episode: s09e19-20 The Truth, F/M, Fluff, Hate, Hope, Jealousy, Love, Oral Sex, Sex, Smut, Trust, joy, numb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-17 08:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarie_Fairy/pseuds/Sarie_Fairy
Summary: Mulder/Scully relationship moments explored through emotions and the days of the week.It gets angry and sad and lovey and smutty, and all things in between.This is being written for Fictober on Tumblr.Find me here:Sarie-Fairy





	1. Monday - TRUST

**TRUST** _Firm belief in the reliability, truth, or ability of someone or something._  
  


It was a Monday when Fox Mulder first realised he trusted her.

He didn’t trust many people.

In fact, his mantra was ‘trust no-one.’

There were these three guys. The Lone Gunmen. He’d followed their work for years, and them likewise. He had read their publications and felt an affinity with their lack of trust too. When they reached out to him to access inside government information, he helped. Then, they returned the favour and helped him track down a suspect on a case he was working. And so it went. He trusted these three guys. Liked them too.

There was the occasional informant. Truthfully, he wouldn’t say he trusted them, not entirely. Just interacted with them enough to gather information.

No one else. 

Until….

He got a new partner. Someone assigned to spy on him. Or so he thought.

She was the very last person he should have trusted.

In actual fact, spying on Mulder probably was her assignment. If she’d read between the not so subtle lines. Another agent may have interpreted it that way. But Special Agent Dana Scully had the most integrity of anyone Fox Mulder had ever met. Blindingly so.

That must have been why, on their very first case, he decided to tell her the truth. To tell her everything on a rainy night in Bellefleur, Oregon. She listened. Asked questions. Didn’t reject what he was saying.

From that very first case, she showed him enthusiasm, and she challenged him. It was thrilling. To spar so passionately with an intellectual equal. To not be either dismissed nor fawned over. This, this was something new. And he loved it. She had an unparalleled intelligence and work ethic, and her skill set complimented his perfectly; for the work he had been doing; his life’s work.

It was only their second case together that she proved herself to him. She wasn’t trying to. She was just being herself. Doing what she did, in the way she did it.

He’d been a jerk and ditched her, and she’d rescued him. He’d gotten captured on a military base and was missing to Scully. So, she found him. Broke a couple of fucking laws in the process. He loved it when some one’s integrity didn’t mean they followed the law; stuck to the rules. It meant doing the right thing. And her right thing was to find him. Bring him home.

He knew he trusted her then. He trusted her with his life.


	2. Tuesday – JEALOUSY

**JEALOUSY** _Feeling or showing an envious resentment of someone or their achievements, possessions, or perceived advantages._

It was a Tuesday when Dana Scully realised what she was feeling was jealousy.

She liked Mulder. He was intelligent, sensitive, funny and passionate. So passionate. About his work.

They hadn’t been partnered a year and had been on less than a dozen cases together. But their work was intense and had literally taken them to the ends of the Earth together.

As much time as they’d spend in each other’s company, their relationship was professional. That’s not to say they hadn’t discussed personal things, they had. Up until this point, though, they never had a conversation about past intimate relationships.

It shouldn’t have come as a shock to Scully that Mulder had a romantic past. However, when his past came in the form of a beautiful, leggy Brit, whose sense of humour included fooling the agents into believing they were about to be blown to kingdom come, Scully could be forgiven for being shocked. Being pissed off even.

The jealousy came falling down on her like a ton of bricks when said Brit pushed herself and her pillowy lips onto Mulder. In front of her.

It stunned Scully. The feeling. The intensity of it.

It would take her many more years, and numerous other situations bearing witness to Mulder’s encounters with other women before she realised that there was never any cause for jealously. Because, from the moment she stepped into his basement office, their fate was sealed. She was his perfect opposite. His perfect person. There would never be anyone other than her for him.

She did not know this yet.

Scully came to understand that, in the past, Pheobe had hurt Mulder; he wouldn’t play the audiotape she had left behind for him, in an act of self-preservation.

Scully had to work through and confront where her jealousy had come from, what it meant. It wouldn’t become altogether clear to her for a long while. What was crystal clear to her now though, was that she hated seeing Mulder get hurt.

That she cared for him. 

And that it frightened her, just how much.


	3. Wednesday – LOVE

**LOVE** _A feeling of strong or constant affection for a person._

It was a Wednesday when Fox Mulder realised that he loved Dana Scully.

Although, he didn’t immediately dash out into the rain, rush over to her apartment with flowers in hand and a look in his eye that told he would spill all the secrets of his heart to her.

No.

He didn’t do that.

He couldn’t.

Because she was gone.

And all that he had left of her was her voice. Her terrified voice. Calling out his name. Haunting his answering machine.

That and the piece of jewellery that had adorned her delicate neck, every day since the day they met. Hanging heavy around his neck now. His repentance that he failed her. Her reminder of a God he didn’t believe in. But if he did, he might certainly now ask, _why?_

It evoked something within his heart. This person he cared about most in the world, that he now knew he loved most in the world, being stolen away from him.

He put himself at the centre of this too.

Taken from _him_.

He wandered in a haze for months. Swapping between anger and wretched sorrow.

Could only muster strength for Maggie.

Promised to find her, knowing a needle hiding away in a barn as big a Washington DC would be a simpler project.

Helplessness swallowed him whole.

He managed to work. Pretended he wasn’t slipping away too.

Wandered lost.

Couldn’t sleep.

Fucked a vampire. Hoping she’d take the thoughts away, if even for a moment. But he only thought of _her_. What it would have been to kiss _her_ lips, to push his tongue into _her_ pretty mouth. Kiss her milky skin…. To taste her. _Know_ her.

He will never know, and he hates himself.

Hates himself that he was hard inside someone else, thinking of her when she’s probably dead.

He makes promises to himself to never open his heart again. This hurt’s too much.

He didn’t want to love again. Not like this. Didn’t want the pain of losing someone again, like he lost Samantha. He didn’t ask for it. But she crept in. Silently. Confounded him.

Then…

When she came back to him. Was alive again, his elation soon after turned to fear.

He tried hard to push it away. To rid himself of the love he had for her. The love he was now all too aware of.

But it wasn’t just love. Not just that warm blanket, fuzzy feeling.

He was in.

_In_ love.

Madly.

And he didn’t know how to get out.

And he was fucking terrified.


	4. Thursday – HATE

**HATE** _To feel intense dislike for._

It was a Thursday when Dana Scully recognised the feeling boiling inside of her towards Fox Mulder, was hate.

There had been an unusual intensity to their cases of late. An intensity to them.

A pull between them as a result of almost back to back cases where either Mulder rescued Scully or Scully rescued Mulder. Physically or emotionally.

Things felt raw and personal and like every line between her work and private life had been rubbed together and smudged into an irreversible blur.

No distinction.

She needed that distinction back.

When Mulder left to take a forced holiday, and in no uncertain terms told her what to do, she arced up. She felt the familiar stranglehold of control. So very reminiscent of her father. Her father and a few too many much older lovers. 

She’d had enough.

She meant to have the strength of her convictions. To stick to her _no_.

She didn’t, and some hate crept in.

She did as he’d asked; it turned out she was right – a waste of her time, and some hate crept in.

He didn’t appreciate her being there. Was pissed off she hadn’t uncovered what he’d expected. Brought her abilities into question, mocked her about having to rush off a phone call, and some hate crept in.

She drew a new line. A clear line and stepped over it into a crummy bar with a perfect stranger.

She felt _him_ begin to fall away as her personal life easily spilled from in conversation. 

She felt desired. 

For a moment, she felt free.

Free to choose. To let go.

It was as intoxicating as the clear liquid mixing with the slowly melting ice in the tumbler she was poking at with her straw.

She marked her body. 

A permanent reminder to her that she could defy.

Every tiny prick moving her further from herself. From Mulder’s Scully. To where…? She didn’t know. Just… away.

She gave herself over to the pain. Liked it.

...

She was on all fours on a strangers bed. Distant lightning strobing through his window, illuminating her pale flesh. Punctuating his thrusts. 

He was being too gentle and so she had to help herself.

_He_ was there too. Mulder. Always there a little; either in body or in her mind. Not an imagined replacement for the dick inside of her. No. He was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room.

Watching.

She wanted him to watch.

To watch as Ed gently undressed her. As he exposed her breasts when he unclasped her bra. To watch as she moaned when he took a nipple in his mouth and squeezed at her other breast. To watch as she crawled her way, naked up the bed, beckoning this other man with a seductive look over her shoulder. One of the few expressions left that she knew Mulder had never seen.

To watch as she moved her own hand between her legs and rubbed at herself, a practised, familiar pattern.

The idea of _him _as a witness to her wanton desire was infinitely more arousing that the handsome, toned man behind her, grasping her hips and shoving himself inside of her.

She looked at the empty chair as she came.

...

After. He was angry. So, fucking angry. Afforded her no sympathy. Didn’t reach out for her hand in the hospital bed.

Not this time.

He made it all about him.

Anyone proximate to Mulder; their tragedy he’d cling to like a life raft. He so used to the sensation; perhaps he’d sink without it.

No compassion, only something bordering on disdain.

She hated him for teasing her. For not comforting her. For not being the soft place she needed to fall right now.

Because worse than her injuries. Worse than the helplessness a woman feels when she’s violated by a man. She thinks she knows a secret. A secret that might kill her.

She hates him because she needs him.

She knows this too… she hates him because she loves him.

And that just makes her hate herself.


	5. Friday – JOY

**JOY** _A feeling of great pleasure and happiness._

It was a Friday night, nearly turned Saturday morning, when Fox Mulder experienced the joy of knowing his partner completely.

He’d never had fun during sex before. It was always moody or heady; angry or an apology. Or lustful. Or maybe because he had something to prove.

He now knew that Dana Scully giggled during sex. She talked, and she was playful. She was all of herself, the Scully he knew. Just more.

...

She’d found him on the street, earlier that day, looking for her. Took him home and, unusually, made him tea.

He sensed a different energy to her. An openness. A willingness to respond to him.

She spoke of her past.

Of a man.

A choice.

Provoked the weight of the possible enormity of them, on the couch, together, caught in a moment in time.

He questioned what it might mean, as she lulled to sleep beside him.

...

She put her arms around his neck, an hour later, when he carried her to his bed to sleep.

Didn’t let go of him.

Whispered to him, she was ready to make another choice. Then kissed him tenderly. Pushed her mouth to his, still cradled in his arms. Ran her tongue between his lips. Elicited a whimper from him and chuckled lovingly at his response. He laid her on the bed, himself beside, and kissed her back. Tongues tentatively explored then entwined, as plump lips slipped over pouty ones.

...

He always knew there was a well beneath her ordered exterior. Though her desire, he incorrectly thought, might be as hard to come by as her vulnerability. On occasion, he would tug at her vulnerable side. Pull at it until she reluctantly revealed herself. He imagined this too would be the same. She, finding the exposure too revealing.

He was wrong.

This. This was the same as when she was passionate about her work, a paper she was writing, or an argument she was winning.

She’d made her mind up and was entirely there all naked and willing and throaty laugh.

They did laugh. Both of them, when they were naked. Laughed at the absurdity of it. Their bodies finally together. So strange that they knew each other so well, to still not know each other _this_ way.

She grinned when she kissed him, and he laughed. 

“I can’t kiss you when you’re smiling so much,” he teased.

She said, “sorry’” and grinned even wider and then laughed into his mouth.

She was soft. Despite her toned physique. So soft. Soft and smooth.

And beautiful.

He marvelled; asked her if her breasts, _had been there the whole time, just a few thin layers of fabric_, from him. 

She laughed a _yes_ as his mouth wrapped around her nipple. 

His hand cupped her breast while she straddled him as he sat up against the headboard. She ran her fingers through his hair while he sucked and nipped and licked at her.

She grinned and teased him, remembering and telling of all the times she knew he had had an erection in her presence. Added that she wanted to “do this” every time - reaching down and running her hand firming along his length.

She let out a humoured breath from beneath him, as her eyebrows drew together in greeting, said, “I’m worried you won’t fit”.

He kissed the pout from her lips and promised to go slow, and they kissed once more as he gently pulsed himself into her. 

In a mix of breath and laugher and quivering voice told him he “felt amazing,” and before long she was telling him “harder” and 

“faster”.

She held his neck and looked at him when she came. Moments later, when he followed, she engulfed him with her mouth. Then told him she loved him, “so much”.

He said he loved her too. Had for “so, so long now”.

She cried, and he looked concerned, so she touched his cheek to reassure him, and said, “I’m happy”. 

She explained that she’d told the man from her past that she didn’t know what she had when asked about her life. Then added, “I do know now, Mulder. It’s you. I have you. And I’m so happy.”

...

They lay awake and talked and laughed. Smiled ’til their faces hurt. Relived every moment of their lovemaking, how it felt and looked and tasted.

Talked of what next…

No monsters encroached, no dead or missing sisters, no dead fathers or killing diseases; just passion, and what curled their toes, and all the places they planned to ‘christen’, and futures, and them. Finally just them.

Said all the things they’d caught on their tongues, said out loud between kisses and caresses. Between looks and promises.

They fell to sleep entangled and woke and made love again.

This time slow, with no words. Their eyes held in conversation.

She stroked his hair until he fell back into sleep. Snuck out in yesterday’s clothes to pack a bag and return. To spend the weekend together, plotting their lives from there.

She’d told him the night before, all sleepy on his lounge, that she ‘didn’t say her whole life changed’ in the two days he had been away.

But in the few hours since, it had. Both of theirs had.

And now there was joy.


	6. Saturday – NUMB

**NUMB** _Deprive of feeling or responsiveness._

It was a Saturday when Dana Scully stopped crying; when there was nothing left to feel except numb.

The scientist in her told her that bad things (and good), outside of her control, were random events. Nothing to give examination to, no way to prevent or conjure them.

No reason to give ownership to them.

She didn’t believe in curses. She didn’t indulge in self-pity. She was pragmatic.

But...

Things began to build up.

All the things done to her, or taken away.

Her father.

Herself, along with her ova…

….and her memories.

Returned only to almost have her life switched off.

The numerous killers who took her, not managing to steal her last breath, but took little pieces of her faith in humanity instead.

Her sister.

And then, she supposed, Charlie. They’d fought. He’d screamed at her. Blamed her for Melissa’s murder and hadn’t spoken to her, (or her mom or Bill, who defended her), since.

Her cancer.

The strange piece of metal that saved her, only to draw her places to burn.

Emily. Oh, dear God, Emily…. Given but for a moment only to be taken away too.

And now….

Mulder.

Stolen from her. From the face of the Earth entirely, it seemed.

And just in case she wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.

A gift dropped into her lap.

Or rather her uterus.

A perverse twist.

_Now you have the one thing you said you never knew you always wanted, stop fucking complaining about anything else._

But she couldn’t enjoy what was growing inside her. Was even scared to hope that a little piece of him was now in there with her… because what if he wasn’t?

….

With him gone from her, she now knew the reason she could cope, could live, could breath, with all the loses and terrors from before was him. Him beside her.

A pitiful paradox sunk into her that his absence meant she couldn’t cope with his absence.

….

No joy for the baby; because grief and sorrow and devastation slithered in too.

No respite from the pain. 

No Mulder.

No hopes.

No dreams anymore.

…..

It was too much.

So, Dana Scully stopped feeling.

Stopped feeling anything but numb.


	7. Sunday - HOPE

**HOPE** _To look forward to with desire and confidence._

It was a rainy Sunday night, in an unremarkable motor inn in New Mexico, when Fox Mulder and Dana Scully fell asleep in each other’s arms, with hope in their hearts.

Dante himself would have to agree that they’d both been through Hell. Two solitary Hell’s. Their separation part of their torture.

They were together again now. Their future anything but certain. It had never been more uncertain, for them. For the entire human race.

There was some certainty, though. They both knew that they loved one another. And that they’d missed each other, so much. 

Missed, so much.

They’d been on the run for days, catching sleep when the other drove; surviving on gas station food and adrenaline.

A last-minute decision to stop. Scully needed a shower. To sleep in a bed. Wasn’t practised at _running_, as Mulder was.

The second he clicked the room shut, he spun and grabbed her. Wrapped both of his hands around her face and brought her lips to his. His hips lurched forward, banging into her abdomen. She grabbed his waist. Held him there. He forced his tongue deep into her mouth, and she opened wide for him, swirled her tongue around his. Licked him.

He told her, “Fuck baby, I missed you.” And it melted her. She had so many things to say; to ask, to question… to try to explain.

But at that moment with him, there were no questions or answers. Or space or time. Just them. Climbing back into each other.

He walked her backward over to the bed, and she protested. Told him she needed to shower first. Hadn’t in days. He insisted “no,” he’d missed her smell and taste for too long; didn’t want it washed away. She had no chance to protest as she was on her back on the bed, her pants somewhere on the floor, his tongue inside of her.

She tasted the same. _Fucking Hell_, she tasted the same. He didn’t know why, but he needed her to taste the same.

He moaned, and she remembered him.

They clasped hands as he made her come with his lips and his tongue. In a fever recalled what curled her toes and made her pray his name.

She stripped him then. Pushed his face on the bed. Straddled him and touched him all over. Kissed the nape of his neck. Bit him there. Dragged her hands every place while her arousal dripped between his cheeks. She spread her wetness over toned muscles, down between them, pressure, pushing down. He moved beneath her. She teased and cupped him. He drew his hips up, she reached under, held his stiffness. Stroked and then pumped her hand. Used her slickness to pump and to press, push in, to stimulating inside him. Pressed and pulled and licked his sweat. Filled him and controlled him until their breathing was a unified frenzy.

They’d loved each other so fiercely from the dawn, so fast and deep, it blinded them. Frightened them. Halted a natural evolution; so, intimacy waited ’til twilight.

Hardly had but started before they were ripped apart.

Their journey never reached this far. New topography still to be mapped with kisses and fingers and tongues. They’d never loved like this before. Raw and desperate and furious. Never had it matched more perfectly the love they shared.

Time needed making up for. And they were.

He told her to stop. In a fervour, rolled over underneath her. Steadied her hips and thrust up beneath her. She gasped, and her head fell back. She steadied then charged and bucked and cried. Held his shoulders, pressed nails into his flesh. Sounded out her pleasure. Pulsing a rhythm into him. Letting lost time fall off her with every beat.

He lifted her off all at once. Breaking her out of their haze. For a moment. Until, he faced her down on the bed, grabbed her hips and tilted her pelvis. Lay all the way over her, and in her, embracing her. From behind. So much skin on slippery skin. Hot breaths and whispered ‘_I love you’s’_ and ‘_I missed you’s’_ and ‘_never again’s’_ and kisses and tears and love and love and love.

She tilted her hips and took him deeper. His arms wrapped her up, ending in busy hands pinching at tight pink flesh, on her breast, and between her legs. 

She was hot and full and blanketed and loved and safe, and he ignited her with relief in an explosion, while he pumped and pumped and pumped until he burst into her.

They lay there, in heat and wetness and bonelessness and love. A tangle of limbs and lips and pasts and futures.

He bathed her after. "There’s a bath?" she’d said, her face alight, and he chuckled and told her he’d asked for one specifically. Thought then, maybe they would make it, where ever they were going if these little things pleased her so.

He washed her skin, lathered and rubbed. And touched her everywhere again. Making small waves in the tub. Tiny ripples at first, until she peaked sloshes through the water.

He helped her out and dried her off, wrapped her in a robe and laid her down. Dressed to go out to get food but stayed and talked instead.

A reflection of the first time he told her the truth. On the floor and the bed. A pain in his heart, she to soothe him and let him believe. His perfect person. There again. Still perfect. And his.

They spoke about men and invasions and what was to come or be, or become of them… and settled on wanting the same thing. Decided maybe there was hope. Then they both lay down and slept, not saying what they both knew.

That _their_ real hope… was the person wrapped in their arms.


End file.
